


before the gold and the glimmer

by ktlsyrtis



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Scrub In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-02 20:32:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15804060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktlsyrtis/pseuds/ktlsyrtis
Summary: Recently out and freshly divorced, Bernie Wolfe takes a vacation to Italy to find herself. What she finds there instead is so much more than she could have ever imagined.(based on the filmUnder the Tuscan Sun)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cover Art: before the gold and the glimmer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15806841) by [Kayryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayryn/pseuds/Kayryn). 



> As always with me, it takes a village to get a fic written. Eternal gratitude to Bonnie for her beta work that always makes me sound so much better, and to Regency for her unflagging support. And my same-sized spoon Beth, who encouraged, supported, cajoled, and kicked my ass through the process of getting this monster done and who I'm more grateful for than I have adequate words to describe. This wouldn't be here without you ladies and I love you so much! <3
> 
>  
> 
> _title from 'Stolen' by Dashboard Confessional_

There’s a ladybug on the windowsill.

Bernie can’t take her eyes off it, follows it as it crawls back and forth along the uneven caulking, occasionally fluttering up to the window pane before falling back down to the painted wood. 

She thinks of chasing through the yard as a child, trying to catch the tiny red beetles. Remembers her mother telling her to always be kind to ladybugs, that they were a sign of good luck.

 _I could use some of that luck now_ , she thinks bitterly, eyes still on the beetle as it takes flight in search of more hospitable surroundings.

“Ms. Wolfe?”

Bernie turns back to the rather dour looking solicitor across the desk, attempts to give him a smile, fears it’s more of a grimace.

“Yes, sorry. You were saying?”

“As discussed, this is Mr. Dunn’s response to the divorce petition, conditionally accepted on the grounds of ‘unreasonable behaviour’.” He slides a form across the smooth surface of the desk. The text is too small to make out, but she can clearly see Marcus’ signature writ bold across the bottom, on the line beside her own, the end result of 6 long months of arguments and recriminations. 

“Now, as I said, this acceptance is based on a series of financial conditions.” Another form, the text even smaller, containing a series of figures, an empty line with her name typed neatly beneath. “Mr. Dunn is willing to forego maintenance payments, as you both earn a commensurate income.” She can’t hold back a scoff at that, knows for a fact that Marcus makes _far_ more at St. James than she does on her AFIP and occasional locum work, but she has no doubt his solicitor has done everything in his power to paint things in a different light. 

“Mr. Dunn’s one stipulation is that he retain sole ownership of the family home.”

Bernie blinks, stunned. “He- he wants the house?” The house once belonged to her aunt, a surprise inheritance shortly after they married. She remembers all the times Marcus tried to convince her to sell, complained that it was too big for just him when she was always away on tour, too much to take care of. “What on earth for? He doesn’t even like it.” 

The solicitor swallows, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m led to believe that Mr. Dunn has embarked upon a new relationship and that the woman in question is quite fond of the house. She thinks it’s an excellent home for a family.”

“Why would he need-” The look of pity in the solicitor’s eyes is like a blow to the diaphragm. “Oh. Oh, I see.”

 _This was your choice_ , Bernie reminds herself sternly. She doesn’t even know why it bothers her so much, just that the thought of another woman in her house, in her bed, makes her never want to step foot there again. 

Vaguely she’s aware of the solicitor droning on, saying something about “greatly increased property values” and “a substantial payout sum,” but all she can focus on is this feeling that her last tether, the last scrap of anything resembling the life she built, has been torn out from under her, leaving her hopelessly adrift. But that’s what she’s good at, she thinks, rarely staying in one place too long, signing up for one deployment after another until the IED sent her back for good. What should it matter if home is now just another moving target?

She picks up the heavy fountain pen from the desk and scrawls her name on the blank space.

-

In the end, she takes almost nothing from the place that has been her legal home for almost twenty-five years. Just uses her key to let herself in when she knows Marcus is at work, ignores the pumps in the front hall, the feminine clothes in the wardrobe that are definitely not hers; stuffs the few possessions she cares about into a couple of cardboard boxes and her battered carryall. Loads the whole lot into the miniscule boot of her impractical sports car, pausing to take one last look.

There were good times here. Of course there were. If nothing else, Marcus was her best friend once, her partner, and their early years in this home had been comfortable overall, if not entirely satisfying. 

But then Bernie thinks of all the secrets she kept in those walls, truths about herself that she held so tightly inside, terrified to admit them to herself as much as she was of Marcus finding out. Truths she was no longer willing to repress, not after coming so close to dying with the secrets still inside her. 

Now, with time and distance, she can finally acknowledge how dreadfully unhappy she felt, the suffocating loneliness that Marcus had no hope of easing. 

Sliding behind the steering wheel, Bernie takes a deep breath, feels something loosen in her chest, an almost manic giddiness settling over her as she pulls away.

The feeling lasts until she picks up the keys to her new home; a dingy month-to-month flat in a cement block building that she was forced to move to once she could no longer afford the hotel she’d retreated to initially. It’s little more than a single room, with a tiny bathroom in one corner, a few cabinets and a hob next to a small square of countertop in the other. 

She ushers the landlord out quickly, feels his leering gaze linger on her skin like a film of grease, barely has the energy left to do much more than kick off her trainers and collapse on the lumpy mattress, falling into an uneasy sleep.

-

“What a wanker!”

Hannah rolls her eyes dramatically, pulling a snort of laughter from Bernie. “Alex, you shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true!” Alex reaches across the table to give Bernie’s hand a squeeze, piercing blue eyes intent. “Marcus _is_ a wanker, but that doesn’t make walking away any easier. I’m so proud of you, Bern.”

Bernie smiles tightly, gives Alex’s hand a squeeze in return, only pulling back when the waiter comes over with their bottle of wine. Not for the first time, she thinks how grateful she is for Alex’s presence in her life, how without her she’d still be living a life of quiet desperation with Marcus.

Alex is beautiful, whip smart, deviously funny and they became fast friends while serving together in Afghanistan. It was the kind of friendship Bernie never had with another woman before, a closeness that made her heart beat a little faster each time she saw Alex, made Bernie want to be with her all the time.

And when they’d gotten drunk in an empty surgical tent at the end of a hard day with too few victories, Alex was a good enough friend to pull back when Bernie clumsily kissed her, made her stay and talk through her mortification, held her close as she confessed the feelings, the desires, that she’d always pushed away with tears streaming down her face.

Since the IED returned them both to England, Alex and her partner Hannah took Bernie under their wing, in some respects, supporting her through the painful process of revealing her sexuality to Marcus and filing for the divorce. Bernie knows she couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ have done it without them.

“To Bernie and her newfound freedom from compulsory heterosexuality.” Hannah’s face stretches in a wide grin as she raises her wine glass, clinks it softly against Bernie’s and then Alex’s water glass, before taking a sip. Bernie frowns, just now noticing there are only two wine glasses present.

“You’re not drinking?” A glance passes between the couple, Alex biting her lip a bit, looking fit to burst and Bernie’s eyes widen. “You’re not drinking!”

“We’re pregnant!” Hannah blurts out, beaming as she takes Alex’s hand.

“I’m sorry, Bern,” Alex says. “Tonight’s supposed to be about you, but I knew we wouldn’t be able to keep it from you.”

“No, Alex. No!” Bernie can’t hold back the grin splitting her face as she looks between the two of them. “I’m so happy for you! For both of you. You’re going to be wonderful mothers.”

“Maybe, if it’s a girl, we’ll name it after you,” Alex teases, Bernie’s eyes widening in immediate horror.

“Don’t you dare! I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

The table descends into laughter, Hannah and Alex excitedly filling Bernie in on the process, the due date, the donor they chose with the hope of getting Alex’s blue eyes. Bernie keeps the smile on her face, despite the tightness in her chest. She’s thrilled for her friends, of course she is, but she knows this will change everything, and she can’t deny the slither of hurt that their family is just beginning as hers is falling apart.

“There is one other thing,” Alex says, nudging Hannah, who pulls an envelope from her handbag. “We’re supposed to be going on that tour of Italy in a few weeks, but between my morning sickness and the fact that I can’t drink, it’s not exactly the best time.” 

“So we combined our standard tickets into one first class accommodation. For you.” Hannah slides the envelope across the table towards Bernie with a smile. She picks it up with numb fingers, knows her jaw must be hanging open as she flips through the tickets with her name printed on them. “Ten days on the Amalfi coast - hotel, tours and meals included.” 

“I…I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”

“Nonsense,” Alex says with a scoff. “Bern, considering the shit you’ve been through the last year, there’s no one who deserves it more.”

“And before you say you can’t get away,” Hannah cuts in as Bernie opens her mouth to do just that, “that’s not going to fly with us. You can step away from locum work anytime you want, and that dismal little flat of yours certainly isn’t going to miss you.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Bernie’s throat is tight with restrained tears, with gratitude for her friends.

“Say yes, Bern.” Alex breaks into a grin at Bernie’s nod of acquiescence. “We haven’t even told you the best part yet. It’s an all lesbian tour of Italy.” She leans in conspiratorially. “Wine, romantic atmosphere, and a bus full of like-minded ladies. You might even get a vacation shag out of the deal!”

Bernie feels her face flush with heat, swallows more of her wine as Alex and Hannah begin to chatter about all the things the trip entails, and wonders just what the hell she’s gotten herself into.

-

What Bernie’s gotten herself into, she quickly discovers, is some sort of waking nightmare.

Italy is beautiful, the food spectacular, and the change of scenery is much needed. But what Alex and Hannah had billed as a way for Bernie to meet like-minded women, turns out to be a tour bus full of loved up lesbian couples.

Everywhere she turns it’s cuteness and canoodling, an unrelenting reminder of how alone she is. And if that weren’t bad enough, once the other ladies on the tour find out that Bernie is single, they turn into a flock of matchmakers. Hardly an hour goes by without a phone being shoved in Bernie’s face with a picture of yet another woman she “would just _love!_ ”

By the end of the second day she’s exhausted and wondering if there’s a way to get out of the rest of the tour. Fortunately, they’ve stopped in Cortona for the evening and there are no group activities planned.

Bernie wanders through the cobblestone streets, losing herself in the bustle of the village, conversations in a language she doesn’t understand washing over her. In some ways it reminds her of being deployed, a stranger in a foreign land.

She finds herself pausing outside a closed storefront. The window is papered with real estate opportunities - pictures of houses, flats, even farms, printed above contact information and euro amounts.

One in particular catches her eye. Instead of a photograph, it’s a beautiful watercolor illustration of a quaint villa, with a tile roof and olive trees out front. She peers closer, reads the name _Bramasole_ beneath the image.

“ _Bramasole._ From _bramare_ ; ‘to yearn for.’ And _sole_ ; ‘the sun.’ Thinking of buying it?”

Bernie turns at the unexpected voice, startled, finds a diminutive woman with a mischievous smile standing close beside her. She’s wearing an elegant black dress and has a dramatic black and white hat atop her short chestnut curls, looks like the star of some old film. Incongruously, she holds an ice cream cone in her hand, just beginning to drip down onto her fingers in the summer heat.

“I’m sorry?”

The woman raises an eyebrow, inclines her head toward the fliers. “It’s a nice little villa. Rather run down, but redeemable.”

Bernie demurs with a laugh. “No, no! I-I’m just a tourist.”

“So?” There’s a challenge in this stranger’s eyes, something that makes Bernie feel seen.

“Well, I mean, who wouldn’t want to buy a villa in Tuscany?” Bernie rambles, even as her mind screams at her to just _shut up_. “But with the way my life has been…It would be a terrible idea,” she concludes, with a helpless shrug, not sure how she got into this conversation or why she’s explaining herself to this woman.

“‘A terrible idea’?” The woman studies Bernie for a long moment, eyes twinkling. “Don’t you just _love_ those?”

She turns away without another word, disappearing into the crowded piazza, leaving Bernie a little flummoxed.

-

The Tuscan landscape rolls past through the grimy window of the tour bus the next morning as they make their way south towards Rome, lush and verdant, like something out of a pastoral painting. Bernie barely takes any of it in, is only really paying attention because her cell phone lost service just outside of Cortona. 

She was researching hotel options in Rome until that point, is pondering how she can explain to Alex and Hannah that she’s abandoning their thoughtful gift, when the tour bus comes to a stop in the middle of a narrow dirt road the driver promised was a shortcut. 

Laughter fills the bus and Bernie cranes her neck, can just make out the herd of sheep and two harried shepherds that have instigated this unscheduled stop. She slumps back in her seat as the women around her chatter and snap pictures, can’t help but resent even this minor delay in her escape from this interminable situation, that there’s not even any scenery to distract her, the bus stopped next to a long wall, coated in crumbling white plaster.

Her eyes fall on a plaque set in the wall, a worn tile with faint remnants of paint on the surface, accenting the eroded embossing of what looks like a house. She squints closer, feels the strangest sense of déjà vu, close enough to read the faded text underneath.

“ _Bramasole._ ”

Bernie’s heart races. A calm certainty settles about her, like the hand of fate has descended from the heavens. The chances of stopping here, in this exact spot, must be astronomical, she thinks, the words of the beautiful stranger echoing in her mind.

_“‘A terrible idea’? Don’t you just love those?”_

The road ahead clears and the bus shudders back to life, the plaque and the wall disappearing from Bernie’s field of view as they pull away. She feels a tug in her chest, a sense of loss, of opportunity slipping through her fingers. Before she can really think about it, she’s rising from her seat.

“Stop! Stop the bus!”

-

Duffle bag slung over her shoulder, Bernie pushes open the dilapidated front gate of _Bramasole_ , the smell of exhaust hanging in the air as the tour bus disappears down the road. The yard is a shambles, overgrown with all manner of weeds, thick, choking vines encasing the two stately olive trees that flank the villa’s entrance. 

From the exterior, _Bramasole_ looks abandoned, the beauty of its structure dimmed by what must be years, if not decades, of neglect. Everywhere she looks Bernie sees more signs of decay: missing roof tiles, broken windows, rotting woodwork.

Squeezing through the half open front door, she finds the interior is no better. The plaster is crumbling from the walls, every square inch of the tile floors covered in dust, dirt and god knows what else. It doesn’t look like whoever lived here properly moved out, just picked up and left, shabby furniture and flotsam filling the rooms. There are even pigeons roosting in the rafters, flying close enough to her head to make her duck when she disturbs them.

For all that the place is a complete disaster, there’s something about it that keeps drawing Bernie in. An elegant archway here, a portion of faded mural there. Hints of the villa’s former grandeur. 

She can see the home it could be, the potential that lies beneath its grimy surface.

Walking into what appears to have been a sitting room, she’s startled to find a wizened old woman and a handsome man in a suit talking quietly on a dusty sofa.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Bernie starts backing toward the doorway she just came through. “I didn’t know anyone was here. I thought the villa was for sale.”

The man smiles, rising to his feet. “It is for sale, _signora_. Unfortunately, we already have a buyer.”

At that moment, a young couple enters from the opposite side of the room, both clad in black from head to toe, chic in a way that makes Bernie feel grubby and out of place. The old woman looks at Bernie shrewdly, says something rapidly in Italian to the man, who grimaces a little before turning to the couple.

“Ah, we have a _slight_ problem. The price has just gone up by 10,000 euro.”

“What? Why? The value certainly hasn’t changed in the last five minutes.” Bernie can’t help thinking the young woman’s voice, thick with a French accent, is as pinched as her features.

“What is the price?” Bernie finds herself asking, curiosity getting the best of her.

Another quick exchange in Italian and the man, who must be the estate agent, smiles apologetically.

“The Contessa feels, now that there’s additional interest,” he gestures toward Bernie, “she may have set the original price too low. That price is now doubled.”

It’s apparently a step too far. The couple storm out of the house, hurling imprecations in French Bernie’s way and slamming the door behind them, leaving a shell shocked Bernie alone with the Contessa and the weary estate agent.

“Are you interested in making an offer?”

It takes Bernie a moment to realize he’s speaking to her. Another to realize she’s honestly considering it. She fumbles her cell phone from her pocket, swiping open the calculator and making her way to sit beside the Contessa.

"This is how much I got for selling my house," she mutters as she taps in numbers, not even sure how much she can commit to a villa that needs so much, worries about wildly overestimating, just as much about wildly underestimating. She takes a few moments to breathe, then holds up a number, less than what she got for her house, but perhaps more than she should spend on a new one, and the look they exchange makes her heart sink.

“I’m sorry, _signora_ , that is less even than the value of the house.” 

“Please,” Bernie says, throat thick. “Please, I- I can’t go back to England. I can’t.” It’s not what she means to say, but she knows the truth of it as soon as the words leave her mouth. She can’t go back to her shambles of a life, has spent so long running away from her home that there’s nothing left there to build on. Buying a villa on a whim, moving to a new country, is capricious to the point of madness, a characteristic no one would _ever_ apply to Bernie Wolfe. 

Maybe that’s why it feels so terrifyingly right.

“You must understand. This villa has been in the Contessa’s family for generations. Even more than the money, it is very emotional for her.” The estate agent has a kind face, is clearly trying to let her down gently. The Contessa mutters something and he smiles a little sadly. “She says she is looking for a sign.”

Bernie tries to smile in return, knows it must look pained. “I see. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” She suddenly feels like crying, kicks herself for being such a fool, for getting so invested in an idea that was clearly impossible. Now she’s stranded in the middle of nowhere, with no place to go. _Idiot_ , she thinks angrily as she gets up to leave before she makes even more of a fool of herself.

The pigeons startle at her movement, fluttering across the high ceiling of the room. Bernie feels something land on the top of her head, reaches up and groans when her hand finds slimy wetness spattered in her hair.

_As if today couldn’t get any worse…_

Looking around for a rag and shaking the droppings off of her hand, she doesn’t notice the Contessa chattering animatedly until the estate agent takes her arm, grinning broadly.

“ _Signora_! What has happened, in Italy, it is a very good sign indeed!”

-

It seems no time at all passes before Bernie is being handed a set of absurdly large old iron keys by an officer at the bank, after arranging to set up the appropriate accounts and wire over the money from the sale of the house, with the help of Mr. Martini, the estate agent.

He also helps bring in contractors to assess the villa, translates for an unending parade of seedy characters that leave Bernie despairing of ever finding anyone suitable. She certainly has no intention of using the oily little man who promises to build her “a love nest worthy of her beauty,” the doddering old man who’s so frail they have to walk him around the property by the arm, nor the pair of gentlemen so stunningly incompetent that Bernie wonders if she wouldn’t be better off picking up a do-it-yourself guide and a hammer and undertaking the work on her own.

If nothing else, the increasingly bleak search for capable workers keeps her busy, keeps her days full and her mind occupied. It’s at night, when she lies on the lumpy mattress in what will eventually be the master bedroom, gazing up at the beatific countenance of Mary mounted in the center of the headboard, that the reality of what she’s done overwhelms her, pulling her under in a tidal wave of grief; mourning the life she had, the future she longed for. Hoping against hope that this all isn’t a horrible mistake, the uncertainty leaving her staring up, unseeing, into the darkness until the wee hours each night.

Almost a week has passed when Mr. Martini ushers Nino through her door. A kindly man with an easy smile and enough English to manage basic communication, he moves through the house with ease, pointing out the structural issues that need to be handled first, the ways in which they can open up the rooms into something airier, more flowing. Bernie is delighted when he relates stories of the villa’s history, tells them that he made some repairs to the place as a young man just starting out in the trade.

The final decision is an easy one. Nino is head and shoulders above everyone else they’ve seen and Mr. Martini assures Bernie that he knows Nino’s mother, knows the sort of righteous fury he’ll face if he does a bad job.

They shake hands and agree work will begin in the morning, a spark of hope reigniting in Bernie’s chest.

-

“You _what?_ ”

Bernie ducks her head, scuffing her toe against the frame of the only public phone booth in the village. There is no cell service to be had in the valley and it could be weeks, if not months, before she’s able to wade through the ocean of red tape surrounding the process of getting a phone line run to the villa, leaving this as her only real method of communication with the outside world. She finds she doesn’t mind much, that the solitude appeals to her introverted nature.

“Surprise?” She can hear Alex’s exasperated sigh even over the crackling static of the connection.

“We were hoping you’d find yourself on this trip, be spontaneous. But, Bern. A villa in Tuscany?”

“Alex, it...it’s something I need to do. A fresh start.” Bernie wishes she had to words to explain, to convince Alex that being completely removed from everything she’s accustomed to is what she needs now. That it’s not just the villa under renovation. “It’s gorgeous here. You and Hannah should come and visit after the baby’s born.”

“Just tell me you’re happy.” Doubt heavily laces Alex’s words and Bernie can’t blame her for that.

“I think I will be,” is her only reply, hoping that it’s the truth

-

Work on the villa begins in earnest and Bernie’s life is filled with dust and noise, the sound of the three young Polish men Nino employs chattering in an unfamiliar language as they tear down rotting plaster and chip up broken tiles. 

She helps as much as she can, cleaning out decades worth of newspapers and dilapidated furniture that needs to be hauled away, carrying load after load of refuse from the demolition out into the yard. It’s far different labor than she’s used to, certainly more than she’s done since the IED and the rehab that followed. Each morning she wakes to sore, stiff muscles and the blisters on her palms quickly harden into calluses. But it’s satisfying work, leaves her feeling like she’s accomplished something at the end of each day.

Bernie takes to spending her evenings in the garden behind the house, lounging in a rickety chair she’d found in one of the bedrooms. It’s still an overgrown nightmare, but the view is unparalleled. She watches the sun set over the valley each night while drinking the luscious Sangiovese from the vineyard on the other side of the village, listening to bird song, and for the first time in recent memory, she feels a sense of peace.

It turns out that there’s much more to Bernie’s custodianship of _Bramasole_ than just the run down villa. She’s now a landowner, has enough acreage that it would take “two oxen two days to plow,” whatever that means. Part of that land is apparently a functioning olive grove, a fact she learns when her neighbor, Placido, stops by one day, asking if she’ll be performing the yearly harvest.

Fortunately, Placido knows enough about olives for the both of them and is willing to share that knowledge. He teaches Bernie how to use the _rastrellini_ , combing through the branches with the small metal rakes to gently dislodge the olives, dropping them to pile up on the nets draped around the bases of the trees, while passing along local wisdom about the best weather to harvest in and how to know when the olives are at their peak.

Harvesting is a celebration of sorts, with residents of the village turning out to help. Bernie is again reminded of her time in Afghanistan, of the work the RAMC did with the locals, the friendships she made, and another crack in her heart heals over as she starts to feel welcome in this community. 

She’s started to pick up a little Italian, mostly the things she needs to discuss with Nino regarding the renovation and an increasingly impressive number of curses. It’s by no means enough to engage in conversation, certainly doesn’t save her from the young boy who convinces her to try one of the ripe olives and laughs himself to tears when she reacts to the unexpectedly bitter taste. Generally she gets by on hand gestures and her limited vocabulary, starts to feel less isolated with each stilted conversation and the encouraging smiles of the villagers.

When the harvest is complete, Placido invites her for dinner with his family and friends. Bernie arrives on their doorstep clutching a bottle of wine from the local market, fumbles her way through introducing herself to Placido’s wife, Isabella, a kindly woman with an easy smile who greets Bernie with a kiss to both cheeks and an exclamation about how tall she is.

There are more people than Bernie anticipated - apparently she’s been the source of much speculation amongst the villagers, as the first “outsider” to move to the area in years - the long dining table crammed with family and neighbors, practically groaning under the weight of all the food Isabella has prepared. She feels a little awkward at first, like some sort of exhibit at a sideshow to be gawked at, but the conversation soon begins to flow along with the wine, turning to more interesting local gossip than the gangly British woman with the terrible Italian.

The main course is just being passed around when the door swings open, Placido’s eyes brightening as he turns to see the new arrival.

“Good evening, everybody. Sorry I'm late.”

“Ah, Fleur! Come in, come in!”

Bernie is shocked to see the woman from the piazza in Cortona, still dressed in black, with an enormous hat that she quickly removes, shaking out her curly hair as she tosses it on a nearby chair and kisses Placido on the cheek. 

Fleur has barely taken her seat when she fixes her gaze on Bernie, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I suppose it wasn't such a terrible idea after all, buying a villa.” Fleur says, sipping her wine. “Are you up there all alone? No lord and master, no consort?”

Bernie can’t help but bristle a little at the presumption. “No. Do you have one?”

“One?” Fleur laughs heartily, as if Bernie has told a particularly clever joke. “Life is too short for just one of anything, my dear. And lords aren’t exactly my type.” She winks slyly and Bernie feels herself flush at the implication, at the idea that this stranger once again sees right through her, mumbles her way out of the conversation and focuses on eating, letting her hair curtain her reddened face.

Dinner ends, and instead of heading back to the villa as she intends, Bernie somehow finds herself arm in arm with Fleur, who insists on stopping for ice cream as they wander the moonlit piazza.

“You know, Giancarlo was flirting with you.”

Bernie starts at that, almost trips on a cobblestone. “What?”

“The young man sitting next to you at dinner. He’s quite smitten with you, you know.” Fleur takes a bite of her ice cream with a moan of pleasure, holds it up in Bernie’s direction. “Taste this. It's _gorgeous_.”

Flustered, Bernie takes a small bite without thinking. It _is_ gorgeous, rich and strong in a way ice cream never is back in England.

“You should see him again. Taking a young lover is practically a rite of passage in Italy.”

Bernie coughs as the last bit of ice cream slides down the wrong pipe, has to pause until she’s able to get her breath back, tears in the corners of her eyes. “No,” she says fervently, once she can speak. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Fleur’s eyes narrow a bit, all too knowing in the dim light. “Not interested in younger men?”

“No.” Bernie swallows, feels a spike of adrenaline in her chest. Normally she would change the subject in a conversation like this, turn it to some safer topic before her non committal answers get her in trouble, but she thinks of Fleur’s comments at dinner, thinks maybe it’s time to take another step in her new life. “I’m not much interested in, ah, _men_ , actually.”

Fleur lets out a laugh of pure delight, squeezing Bernie’s arm tight. “I knew it! Well, I’m glad to know I can still recognize a member of the sisterhood, although you don’t make it terribly difficult.” At Bernie’s questioning look, she leans in conspiratorially. “You do rather look the part, my dear.”

She doesn’t quite know how to reply to that, doesn’t know what about her skinny jeans and loose checked shirt would give such an impression.

“I happen to know some lovely young women in the area. I could introduce you.”

Bernie’s suddenly quite glad that it’s nighttime, hopes that it’s dark enough to cover the blush she feels climbing the back of her neck, warmth flushing right up to the tips of her ears.

“I- I don’t think I’m ready for that,” she manages to choke out, the mere idea filling her with a mix of terror and confused desire. Fortunately, Fleur seems to understand, her eyes going soft as she gently pats Bernie’s arm.

“That’s all right, dear. All in good time.”

-

Autumn arrives in a riot of color, the weather turning pleasantly crisp, the scent of ripe grapes thick in the air as the harvest begins. Demolition at the villa draws to a close and Bernie finds herself at loose ends, now that Nino and his workers have moved on to the more specialized aspects of rebuilding the nearly gutted villa.

They’ve taken pains to keep the house liveable, leave a few rooms untouched enough to function, but existing mostly in those areas has Bernie feeling a bit stir crazy as the weeks go on. Long, rambling walks across the length and breadth of _Bramasole’s_ land help somewhat. Still she feels herself tensing a bit every time she walks back through the door into the seeming chaos of construction, usually to an apologetic Nino explaining another issue they’ve come across, another expense, another setback.

Living in a construction zone is maddening and for all that Bernie spends most of her days questioning if she’s entirely lost her mind, fears that she has bought a house for a life that she doesn’t have, she also feels freer than she has in years, maybe decades, like she can breathe properly for the first time. She finally feels like she’s adjusting to her new life, is more accepted by the villagers at large, is even greeted by the vendors in the marketplace each morning as she walks to get an espresso and one of the decadent sfogliatelle from the bakery.

Cleaning out an old storage cupboard in a far corner of the house, she stumbles across an ancient cookbook, yellowed with age and covered in dust. There are notes in the margins, scratchy but readable handwriting, that with her ever improving Italian she’s able to make out are mostly comments and tweaks to the recipes. She imagines whoever owned this book making notations as she worked, testing and improving, making the recipes her own, finds herself wishing she had someone more than herself to cook for.

Bernie is wandering through the marketplace the next day, the colorful bounty of the local harvest heaped in baskets and stalls, when it suddenly occurs to her that she _does_ have someone to cook for. Several someone’s in fact.

She works her way through a few of the simpler recipes that night, invites Nino and his workers to join her at the wobbly dining table. They eat heartily, are kind enough not to mention the slightly charred meat, the overcooked pasta. 

Bernie has never really cooked before - joining the RAMC straight out of medical school had made her time at home precious, home cooked meals never felt like a priority. Still, she finds unexpected joy in learning to prepare food from the incredible ingredients Tuscany has to offer, thinks often of her childhood spent watching her mother prepare meals for their family. She even finds that her skills as a surgeon help her in this endeavor, attention to detail and a steady hand serving her just as well in the kitchen as they do in a surgical theater.

Before long, there’s rarely a night that the table at _Bramasole_ isn’t filled with food and laughter, an ever-changing crowd of workers and neighbors drinking wine and complimenting Bernie’s newfound culinary skill. There’s satisfaction in this as well, in the smiles of friends, in bringing pleasure to others through food.

For all that meals with friends satisfy Bernie’s need for companionship, another type of loneliness lurks inside her, fills her mind in the quiet of night. She starts to imagine what her future here might be like, and if that future could possibly include someone else, someone more than a friend. The thought of sharing her life, of laughing over glasses of wine and holding hands in the piazza, fills her with unexpected longing and her dreams each night are all fragmented images of warm eyes and soft skin, the comforting presence of another.

-

“Bernie!”

Bernie looks up in surprise, sees Fleur waving from a warmly lit second story window. She’d wandered down to Cortona under the pretense of seeking the first _cardoni_ of the season for a recipe she wanted to try. In reality she needed some space from the incessant hammering of new walls being erected in the villa.

“Come up!” Fleur disappears from the window and Bernie makes her way up the narrow staircase that winds up from the street.

Fleur’s apartment is exactly what she expects; bold colors on the walls, rich carpets, luxurious furnishings. A place that seems designed for seduction and excess. 

While Fleur’s apartment is as expected, the sight of her stretched out on a divan wearing little more than an artfully draped silk scarf is not. Bernie feels her face flame bright with embarrassment, eyes darting about the room, looking everywhere but at Fleur’s naked curves.

“S-sorry. You’re busy. I...I can come back another time.” She turns to leave, Fleur’s voice calling her back.

“Oh don’t be such a prude. Stay!” 

Bernie risks a glance back, relieved to find Fleur has pulled on a kimono; black, of course, with splashes of white and red flowers across it. 

“Bernie, this is Sofia.” It’s only then that Bernie notices the young woman standing before a canvas on the other side of the room in paint covered overalls and a roughly cropped t-shirt, her blonde hair secured in a messy bun by a pair of what appear to be paint brushes. Fleur sashays over to the young woman, sliding a possessive hand across her hip. “Sofia is an art student who’s staying with me while she studies the Tuscan light.” Pushing up on her toes, she whispers something in the young woman’s ear, brushing a kiss against her cheek before she turns and leaves the room. “You know, Sofia has a friend in Rome. Lovely girl, _very_ friendly. I could introduce you.”

Blushing even more fiercely, Bernie shifts her weight awkwardly from foot to foot as Fleur once again drapes herself across the divan. “Ah, no. No, I don’t think… Look, I'm going to go, but I'll come back another time.”

“Oh, you're so boring!” Fleur’s exclamation once again stops Bernie in her tracks, brow furrowing.

“What?”

“I said you're boring. Look at you!” Fleur says, pointing an accusatory finger. “You're sad and afraid. Again!”

Bernie resents the accusation, even as it rings painfully true in her ears. “Excuse me, but I…”

“‘We fear the thing we want the most,’ Bernie, and you are clearly terrified of love. Almost as terrified as you are desperate for it.” Fleur’s gaze is shrewd and piercing, all-knowing. “And nothing puts off a potential lover like desperation, my dear.”

“I just walked in the door...” 

“How are you ever going to be happy if you keep wallowing in fear?” Pushing herself up with a sigh, Fleur moves to stand in front of Bernie, gripping her biceps tightly. Without her towering heels, she has to crane her neck a bit to look Bernie in the eye, makes Bernie feel like some kind of gawky giant. “Listen, when I was a little girl, I used to spend hours looking for ladybugs. Finally, I'd just give up and fall asleep in the grass. When I woke up, they were crawling all over me.”

The non sequitur makes Bernie’s mind whirl a bit. “So?”

Fleur rolls her eyes heavenward and gives Bernie a rough shake. “So, stop being so damn scared and open yourself to the opportunity! Go work on your house and forget about it.”

“But…”

“I said go!” Fleur give her a shove and Bernie raises her hands in surrender.

“Alright, I’m going!” 

She’s still not entirely sure what just happened, but Fleur’s words haunt her back down the stairwell and out into the narrow streets of Cortona. 


	2. Chapter 2

It may not entirely make sense, but Bernie takes Fleur’s advice to heart, throws herself more actively into the work at _Bramasole_ and tries to push her loneliness to the back of her mind. She certainly doesn’t see how it can hurt, can’t even begin to formulate how she would meet a woman here, much less one who would be interested in her.

The work is also more satisfying as rooms start to come back together. Bernie spends her days painting the newly smoothed plaster walls in soft shades of blue and gold, even takes on the project of refinishing the battered old dining table, oiling the wood until it practically glows in the evening lamplight.

There's a crystal chandelier hung high in the vaulted ceiling that she hopes to keep, and she spends an afternoon working with Nino to lower it safely and check its condition. Like the rest of the villa, it's a little battered and a lot dusty, missing many of the delicate crystal droplets and ornate connectors that hold it together, but Nino declares it salvageable. He tells Bernie about an antique shop owned by his cousin in Positano, says they specialize in restoration parts for this kind of thing. 

After weeks working day in, day out on the villa, the thought of a weekend away on the coast is incredibly appealing and it doesn't take much convincing for her to decide to go.

Bernie's hair is already clinging to the back of her neck, damp with sweat, when she gets off the bus in Positano. It may be autumn in Cortona, but the end of summer is still in full force this far to the south, the sun high and bright in a clear blue sky. Bernie is thankful that she'd decided to trade in her usual skinny jeans for loose, thin trousers and a linen shirt that allow at least some airflow.

A whistle cuts through the air as she walks into the city center, making her turn around. There are three men behind her, workers in paint spattered aprons, all leering in her direction. The whistler grins wide when she sees them and shouts out an offer that Bernie wouldn't entertain even if she was straight.

Cheeks burning, she turns and walks away, but the men don't seem to get the hint, or do and don't care.

She hears them following, all three of them shouting out increasingly obscene suggestions, requests and "compliments." For the first time in months Bernie is glad her Italian is still far from fluent. 

Speeding up her steps, she ducks around a corner onto a busy piazza, but the presence of more people doesn't deter her harassers. Her heart races in her chest a bit as she scans the square for a police officer, unsure if she wants to confront the men, if her years of army training still hold up.

"There you are!" Bernie barely has time to register the words before an arm hooks through hers, a kiss bussed against her cheek. "Hello, darling. I thought I'd lost you."

Bernie can't summon a reply, jaw dropped in confusion at the woman now tucked up against her side, her mind just registering silvering hair, warm, dark eyes that crinkle at the corners, and a smile that makes her stomach flip over.

"Shall we? We don't want to be late." The woman raises an elegant eyebrow and gestures toward the men with her eyes, tugging slightly at Bernie's arm. Understanding finally dawns and Bernie follows, winces a little at the all too accurate slur the men hurl in her direction before slinking back out of the piazza.

They walk arm in arm across the piazza in silence, the woman finally putting some distance between them when they reach the shade of an awning outside a gelateria. Bernie finds she misses the warmth of the other woman pressed close to her, forces the thought away with a shake of the head. 

"Sorry about that," her rescuer says with a smile. "The men around here are shameless at best and you looked like you could use some help.” She extends a hand. “Serena Campbell."

Bernie takes the hand held out toward her, the skin soft and warm against her palm. 

"Bernie Wolfe. And I guess I did need some help. Thank you." 

Serena's smile widens a bit, reigniting the butterflies in Bernie's stomach, squeezes their hands just a little before pulling hers away.

"So, Bernie, what brings you to Positano? I haven't seen many other Brits around this late into the off-season."

"Oh, I'm not a tourist." Bernie tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear and shoves her hands deep into her pockets before she can start fidgeting. "I actually own a house north of here, just outside Cortona, that I'm renovating.” She hears information spill out of her contrary to her normal reticence - something about this woman makes want to share more than she would would with any other stranger. “I came here for the weekend to look for some replacement parts." 

Bernie fumbles out the slip of paper with the shop’s address on it before she can natter on any more. "You don't happen to know where the _Via Cristoforo Colombo_ is, by chance?"

Serena leans in close to peer over Bernie's arm at the paper. This close, Bernie gets a little lost in the way the afternoon sun picks out the silver strands in her short cropped hair, the slightly spicy scent of her perfume.

She has to remind herself to keep breathing evenly.

As it happens, Serena knows exactly where the shop is, even offers to show Bernie the way, says it's just down the street from the flat she's renting in the city. 

Bernie can’t help but study Serena out of the corner of her eye as they walk: the flip of her hair, the pale column of her neck and hint of cleavage, set off nicely by the bold floral of her simple knit dress that hugs perfectly at the narrow point of her waist before falling over generous hips, the full hem swirling around shapely legs with each step.

 _Stop it_ , she reprimands herself sharply. Reminds herself to be glad that she bumped into this lovely stranger, not to spend her time lusting after someone she’s just met.

 _Le Myricae_ is tucked between close set buildings, the only indication of its location a small brass plaque mounted on the peeling green door. Inside is dim and quiet compared to the sunny, bustling streets of the city, filled to the brim with antiques of every possible age and description. 

Bernie fumbles her way through a conversation with the old man behind the counter, setting the crystals she’s looking to match on the space between them. He looks at them closely, then shakes his head.

 _“Mi dispiace, signora, non abbiamo niente del genere.”_ He tells them about a few other shops they can try in Positano, goes as far as drawing a crude map on a scrap of paper, wishing Bernie luck on her quest as she and Serena make their way out of the shop.

Bernie squints a little in the sunlight, eyes no longer adjusted after the dim interior, and turns to watch Serena close the door behind them. She knows this is the point where she and Serena part ways, feels regret twist her stomach, as ridiculous as that seems, and she can’t help but wish she had an excuse to spend more time with her.

“Well, um, thanks for helping me find it. I really appreciate your help.” Bernie shoves her hands deep in her pockets, tilting her head a bit as she smiles, voice going a little soft. “It was very nice to meet you, Serena.”

“It was very nice to meet you, too.” Serena hesitates, like there’s more she wants to say, but seems to think better of, just smiles slightly and turns to walk away.

Bernie’s eyes linger on the shape of her silhouette as she walks, finally forces herself to turn her head, to move in the opposite direction. She’s only made it a few steps when she’s pulled up short by the sound of Serena’s voice.

“You know, if- if you wanted some company…” Bernie turns back, taking a few hesitant steps in Serena’s direction.

“I’m sure you have other things to do today,” she says, thinks Serena is just being polite and wants to give her an easy way out of the situation. But Serena smiles brightly, stepping closer.

“One of the perks of vacation - I never have anything I _have_ to do. And I do love a good scavenger hunt.” Her grin falters a bit, shoulders straightening as if she’s expecting disappointment. “Unless you don’t want…”

“No!” Bernie winces, the word coming out louder than she planned, echoing slightly off the high stone walls surrounding them. “No, I- I’d like that very much, actually.” The smile that splits Serena’s face, a genuine smile so bright Bernie can practically feel the warmth, makes a little bit of embarrassment more than worth it.

The shop owner’s “map” is only minimally helpful and they spend the rest of the afternoon walking the labyrinthine streets of the city, hunting through everything from high end antique importers to grubby flea markets. It’s the kind of thing that would normally drive Bernie crazy - she’s never liked shopping, usually approaches it with the efficiency of a tactical military strike; left to her own devices, she’d have abandoned the hunt as a lost cause hours ago - but for whatever reason, Serena’s presence makes it all bearable. 

They chat as they walk, quickly talking like old friends reunited, rather than veritable strangers, discovering they have a surprising number of interests in common, including the astonishing coincidence that they’re both surgeons, albeit of far different backgrounds. Bernie recalls an article of Serena’s that she read years prior and they spend a good hour debating the benefits of front line medical techniques and their potential benefit to NHS hospitals like the one Serena is on sabbatical from.

All sense of time disappears, the golden afternoon light neverending as they wander the cobbled streets. Serena is a delight - witty and charming, wry and sarcastic, with a ready smile and a laugh that warms Bernie’s entire chest. She finds herself hardly able to tear her gaze away when Serena is talking, just studies her profile, the length of her neck, the curve of her lips, the movements of her elegant hands. 

For the first time in her life, Bernie consciously recognizes her response to Serena for what it is, the romantic attraction she never would’ve suspected, much less acknowledged, in the past. Bernie lets herself look at Serena as she’d always been taught to look at men, lets herself admire her figure, imagine how her hair would feel between her fingers, if her lips are as soft as they look. 

She pushes back against the little voice in her head that tells her she shouldn’t be looking at Serena this way, that it’s wrong to fantasize about kissing her, touching her, that Serena isn’t interested and would feel violated if she knew the nature of Bernie’s thoughts. Reminds herself that this is who she is and that it’s all right to be attracted to women, to Serena, in this way. Bernie knows nothing will come of it, that it’s little more that an idle daydream, but letting herself feel it to its fullest and acknowledge it for what it is heals something over inside her.

It’s in the last shop, tucked back in an alleyway they must’ve walked past at least four times, that Bernie finally finds the parts she’s looking for. She and Serena spend almost half an hour digging through a box of assorted crystals and parts until they amass a sufficient quantity of useable pieces. It’s Serena who manages to talk the shrewd-eyed shop owner down from the initially exorbitant price he asks, charming him with a smile and a little light flirting in passable Italian, eventually getting them out the door at almost half the asking price.

They linger outside the shop, both loathe to let the day end. Until now, Bernie hadn’t truly realized how lonely she’s been in Cortona. She has friends she’s made - Fleur, Nino, Placido - but no one she can really talk to, who seems to understand her effortlessly like Alex once did. She can’t explain it, but she feels that same immediate comfort with Serena, like they could talk forever.

Bernie speaks up before she can think better of it. “You’ve been such a big help today, the least I can do is buy you dinner.” Her daring is rewarded by Serena’s brilliant smile, Bernie’s breath catching a little as Serena loops an arm through hers.

“Come on then. I know a place with a _fantastic_ wine list.”

 _Fantastic_ hardly does justice to the wine list at _Da Gabrisa_ , nor the folder of selections they’re presented upon being seated, which is thicker than some novels Bernie has read. Fortunately, Serena seems to be somewhat of a regular here, and Bernie is more than happy to cede the choice to her.

“There’s a vineyard in Cortona, not far from where I live, that makes the most wonderful Sangiovese. You should come up to visit sometime, we can share a bottle.” Bernie feels herself blush at her unintentional presumption, hopes she hasn’t overstepped.

“I might just take you up on that,” Serena says, eyes dark, almost calculating over the brim of her wine glass.

The meal is spectacular, features some of the most delicious seafood Bernie’s ever tasted. They each order a pasta dish, swapping so many bites that Bernie thinks she ends up eating as much of Serena’s as she does her own. The wine disappears as quickly as the food and somehow, by the time dessert arrives, their second bottle stands empty on the tabletop. 

Bernie leans back in her chair, sipping at a small glass of tart limoncello, full of good food and warmed through by wine, content in a way she hasn’t been in recent memory. Across from her, Serena is tucking into a decadent looking tart, and Bernie can’t help the shiver of desire that slides through her when Serena moans at the first bite, a low, husky noise of pleasure that Bernie has no doubt will feature in her dreams tonight.

Conversation is easy and wide ranging throughout their meal, the ease they’d built up during the day amplified by alcohol, warm light, and the soothing sound of waves lapping against the beach at the base of the cliffside the restaurant is set in. The one thing Bernie hasn’t pressed on is why Serena is in Positano in the first place. She knows she’s taking a personal sabbatical, that she doesn’t have a set return date as of yet, but Serena’s been uncharacteristically vague on the details behind it and something in her eyes has kept Bernie from asking. For all that Serena smiles easily and often, there’s a sense of pain, of unfathomable sorrow that lingers in the background, takes over her features in moments of silence. Just the sight of it makes Bernie’s heart ache.

“You know,” Serena’s voice pulls Bernie back from her wandering thoughts, “I just realized I’ve never even asked. How on earth did you end up buying a villa in Cortona of all places? ‘World famous trauma surgeon turned expat home renovation expert’ isn’t exactly a standard career path.”

Bernie barks out a dry laugh. “No, it’s certainly not. Would you believe me if I told you I just sort of fell into it?” Serena’s incredulous raised eyebrow encourages her to continue. “I was discharged from the Army after an injury and when I came home I got a divorce. I lost my career, my home and my marriage in a matter of months.”

“Ah, a fellow member of the embittered ex-wives club.” Serena raises her rapidly dwindling wine glass, tapping it against Bernie’s limoncello in a toast of solidarity. “Mine was a philanderer and alcoholic. Did yours run around while you were on tour?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Serena smiles sympathetically, eyes soft. “Irreconcilable differences, eh?”

Bernie snorts a little into her glass. “You could say that. I imagine Marcus found my realization that I was gay fairly irreconcilable.” The words slip out before her brain has a chance to catch up and her eyes widen, adrenaline born of fear spiking through her system. Her blossoming panic is disrupted by the feel of Serena’s hand covering her own, warm eyes filled with nothing but affection.

“That can’t have been easy. I think you’re very brave.”

Bernie feels herself flush, only just resists the urge to turn her hand over, to tangle her fingers with Serena’s. Turning toward safer topics, Bernie tells Serena about Alex and Hannah, about meeting Fleur and stumbling across _Bramasole_. Regales her with tales of her new neighbors, of Nino and his workers, of the trials and tribulations of a major renovation, until Serena is laughing so hard she has to brush tears from her lashes.

After Bernie settles the bill, ignoring Serena’s attempts to pitch in, they decide to wander down to the beach, carefully descending the steps carved into the craggy face of the cliff. It’s late enough in the day that the crowds have dispersed, colorful umbrellas folded and casting long shadows on the white sand as the sun sinks behind the horizon. 

A comfortable silence settles between them as they walk, close enough that their arms occasionally brush, triggering a frisson of sensation across Bernie’s skin. It’s getting harder to keep her attraction to Serena compartmentalized, her resolve worn thin by a lingering meal full of sparkling eyes and warm laughter. Strained even further by what, by anyone’s standards, would be considered an incredibly romantic walk on the beach.

It doesn’t help that Serena keeps _looking_ at her; long considering glances, full of something indefinable that makes Bernie’s belly clench, quickly turning away with flushed cheeks when she realizes Bernie has noticed. No matter how often Bernie reminds herself that it’s meaningless, a small, traitorous, hopeful part of her can’t help but wonder if she’s not the only one feeling this.

They pause at the water’s edge, gazing out across the sea bathed in blazing orange light. Serena’s sandals dangle from her fingers, painted toes just lapped by the gentle waves, and Bernie can’t tear her eyes away, even when Serena turns her head, their eyes locking. Something shifts in her gaze, uncertainty turning to a resolve that makes Bernie’s heart thud fast in her ears.

Bernie stands frozen as Serena takes one step, then another. Stands so close their toes almost touch and Bernie knows that she would only have to move her hand mere inches to be touching Serena, only a few inches more to be kissing her. The image blazes in Bernie’s mind and something of it must show on her face, because Serena sucks in a sharp breath, eyes wide and so dark the pupils practically disappear.

The feel of Serena’s hand slipping into her own, soft and strong, their fingers tangling together like they’ve been holding hands forever, sends a shiver through Bernie, has her fighting to stop herself from leaning in. 

Serena huffs out a little self deprecating laugh. “God, I’m so nervous!” She squeezes Bernie’s hand tight and Bernie matches her grip, smiles encouragingly. “Bernie, I- I’ve never done this with a woman.” Serena swallows, seems to steel herself. “Would you like to help me change that?”

All the air leaves Bernie in a _woosh_ , desire flooding her so fast it makes her head spin, her mind reeling. Serena’s words, the meaning behind them, echo in her ears, making it hard to focus.

In the end, Bernie’s body knows what to do, even if her mind doesn’t and they move together as if drawn in by gravity. Irrefutable.

One hand still gripping Serena’s tightly, the other raises to slide against Serena’s neck, gently cupping the side of her face, her skin just as soft and wonderful as Bernie imagined. She hesitates for a heartbeat, their lips only millimeters apart, breaths mingling. 

Bernie brushes her lips against Serena’s, feather light, then brings them together more firmly. Serena moans, so softly that Bernie barely hears it over the rhythmic rush of waves. 

Kissing Serena is everything Bernie could have imagined and more. A far cry from the brief moment with Alex and all the awkwardness that followed and entirely different from all of the moments with Marcus over the years. Bernie loses herself in the feel of silky skin, the gentle curve of jaw, can taste a hint of lemon and red wine lingering on Serena’s lips.

They’re both a little breathless and giddy when they part, foreheads still pressed lightly together.

“Sorry,” Serena breathes and it’s all Bernie can do not to laugh with glee.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been wanting to do that all day.” 

A smile that rivals the sunset bursts across Serena’s face and Bernie has to kiss her again, has to feel that smile against her mouth, teeth bumping as they tangle even tighter together. 

She has no idea how long they stay that way, tasting each other again and again, until their lips are tender and swollen. Bernie eventually succumbs to the temptation to trail kisses along the curve of Serena’s jaw, nipping at the divot in her chin, sucking lightly at the fluttering pulse point beneath her ear, until she feels Serena’s fingers tangle in her hair, a moan vibrating against her mouth. 

Bernie feels almost drunk and it has nothing to do with the wine from dinner, only pulls back when she feels an insistent tugging on her hair. The sight of Serena, breathing heavy, lips parted and damp, eyes filled with lust, takes Bernie’s breath away, has her fairly certain her knickers may actually be ruined.

“My flat is just a few blocks away, if you’d like to come over for a nightcap.” The meaning couched in Serena’s tone is plain and Bernie can’t find the words to respond, to say how very badly she wants this, just nods and squeezes Serena’s fingers tightly as she smiles.

Serena’s hand is warm and steady in her own as she leads Bernie through the rapidly darkening streets of Positano, the last rays of the sunset casting the buildings in golden chiaroscuro. She feels like she’s moving through a dream, sounds muffled and distant, her vision clouded, the rapid thudding of her heart and the strength of Serena’s grip the only things still tethering her to reality.

The flat is dim, but Serena doesn’t bother with the lights, simply toes off her sandals in the entryway and leads Bernie through to her bedroom. Only then does she turn to face Bernie, eyes wide and luminous, filled with a mix of longing and uncertainty that surprises her. She realizes then that what she took for boldness was really bravado, that Serena’s response to nerves is to pretend confidence. It’s a technique Bernie knows well, has employed herself in countless situations. Alone in Serena’s bedroom, she sees that brazenness flag, knows that it’s her turn to be brave.

Bernie’s hand trembles a little as she reaches out, resting it lightly against the rise of Serena’s collarbone, her thumb just brushing the skin exposed by the vee of her dress. She feels Serena take a shuddering breath as she slides her hand up, against the curve of her neck, cupping Serena’s jaw, her fingertips just brushing the fine, soft hair behind her ear. Serena’s eyes slip shut with a sigh, nuzzling her cheek against Bernie’s palm and Bernie’s heart squeezes almost painfully in her chest.

Her lips are just as soft and inviting as they were on the beach, a perfect fit against Bernie’s own. This time she risks deepening the kiss, opening her mouth, tugging Serena’s bottom lip lightly between her own. At the first touch of Bernie’s tongue, Serena actually _whimpers_ and Bernie can hardly hear for the thundering of blood rushing in her ears, her hand sliding into Serena’s hair and pulling her closer, slipping her tongue fully into her mouth. She tastes of wine and salt and something else Bernie can’t define, just knows she would happily spend forever trying to figure it out. 

Everything else fades away as they kiss and kiss, tangled together so tightly there’s not even a whisper of air between them, and Bernie is lost in the sensations, so new and overwhelming it’s hard to take it all in; the tug of Serena’s fingers tangled in her hair, the intoxicating smoothness of her skin, the way they fit together, all curves and softness. She’s so caught up in the moment, she doesn’t realize they’re moving until the backs of her knees bump against the bed.

Bernie drops to sit on the mattress with a _whump_ , looks up at a flushed and smiling Serena standing between her legs, all sparkling eyes and pink lips, so beautiful it takes Bernie’s breath away. 

Taking advantage of her new position, Bernie leans forward to brush her nose against the shadowed valley at the neckline of Serena’s dress, presses her mouth to the impossibly soft skin and feels the vibration of Serena’s gasp against her lips, the delicious pull as Serena’s hands find their way back to Bernie’s hair. She can’t resist the urge to suck a small red mark on the swell of Serena’s breast, soothing the sting with her tongue and a grin, Serena’s hands gripping tight, pulling Bernie even closer.

She’s can’t get enough of how warm Serena is, the heat of her body practically radiating through the thin knit fabric of her dress, and Bernie can’t stop touching her. Uncertain hands map the dip of Serena’s waist, the swell of her hips, the curve of her thighs. Every place Bernie touches intensifies her desire, her need for more, for anything Serena is willing to give her. She pauses when her hands move from fabric to skin and looks up, fingers just tickling the backs of Serena’s knees, making her squirm. The heat in Serena’s eyes makes her chest tight, and Bernie has to swallow before she can manage to speak.

“You should know, I...” Bernie says softly, thumbs rubbing nervous circles against Serena’s kneecaps, “I haven’t done this before, either.” 

Serena’s gaze softens, a crooked smile lifting her lips in a look of such tenderness Bernie has to close her eyes, moaning softly as she feels Serena’s lips ghost against her own.

“Then we’ll just have to figure it out together.”

Taking a slow, deep breath, Bernie keeps her eyes on Serena’s as she skims her hands back up her legs, taking the hem of her skirt with her as her fingers trail up the backs of Serena’s thighs, feeling the transition from skin to soft lace and back again, eventually resting her hands on the narrow point of Serena’s waist, the pretty floral dress rucked up above them. 

Gaze never wavering, Serena grasps the bunched fabric, pulling the dress up and off in one smooth motion, dropping it to the floor beside her. Serena’s skin is pale in the dwindling light, all lush curves and black lace, and Bernie doesn’t know where to look first, where to touch first, is overwhelmed by how incredibly much she _wants_.

She’s sees a flash of uncertainty cross Serena’s features, weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other, and it strikes Bernie that Serena may not realize how beautiful she is. Her bravery is humbling and all Bernie wants is to show Serena the way she sees her.

“You’re incredible,” Bernie breathes, leans forward to press a lingering kiss against Serena’s stomach, just below the lacy trim of her bra, nuzzling a bit against the silky soft skin there. Before she can move further, she feels Serena’s hands scrabbling against her back, plucking at the soft linen of her shirt.

Bernie pulls back just enough to lift her arms, hears the crackle of static in her hair as Serena tugs the fabric up over her head, adding the garment to the growing pile of clothes at her feet.

She sees the moment it happens; the slight widening of Serena’s eyes, the hesitation in her hands, her gaze drawn like a magnet to Bernie’s sternum. The scar that bisects her chest practically throbs at the recognition and Bernie has to stop herself from rubbing her knuckles against it.

Mercifully, when she looks up at Serena she doesn’t see pity, just affection, a warmth that quickly flares back into desire as Serena’s eyes move over her. Bernie lifts her hips at the urging of Serena’s hands, goosebumps raising on her skin as her trousers are whisked down her legs.

Between one moment and the next Bernie has a lap full of Serena, her breath stuttering at the first feel of their bare skin pressed together, Serena’s eyes so dark and close. The already familiar, delicious pull of Serena’s hands in her hair makes Bernie moan, head falling back, baring her neck to Serena’s eager mouth. 

Through it all, Bernie’s hands explore Serena’s body, already addicted to the feel of her skin, learning all of her curves and planes, noting the spots that make her squirm and gasp. Trailing her fingers upward along the bumps of her spine, Bernie pauses, fingers resting lightly against the closure of Serena’s bra. Waits with bated breath until a faint “ _please_ ” is whispered just beneath her ear, before undoing the hooks. 

Serena sits back slightly as Bernie’s hands slide up over her shoulders, catching the straps and easing them down her arms and discarding the garment, their gazes locked. Bernie watches Serena’s face avidly, drinking in her responses as she gently cups her breasts. She quickly learns how much pressure makes Serena moan, that a twist just so makes her hips buck helplessly in Bernie’s lap, grinding them together. The hoarse cry that slips loose when Bernie finally lowers her head, swipes her tongue across a pebbled nipple, makes her throb. 

Bernie could easily spend the rest of the night, the rest of her life, methodically exploring Serena, learning everything there is to know about bringing her pleasure. But Serena is only content to be passive for so long, and Bernie finds herself pushed back against the mattress, Serena looming over her with a feral grin and burning eyes. She feels like prey, heart racing, never before so glad to be captured. 

“My turn,” Serena whispers, kissing Bernie fiercely, hands fumbling beneath her back, quickly freeing and discarding her plain cotton bra. 

The way Serena looks at her, the unabashed desire and wonder in her eyes, arouses Bernie almost as much as the feel of those talented hands caressing her breasts. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so wanted, so desirable, and the knowledge that this gorgeous woman wants her just as much makes Bernie’s head spin. 

Serena is unrelenting, seems determined to find every pleasurable sensation that Bernie’s body can process and it’s not long before Bernie is writhing and panting beneath her as Serena continues to explore with hands and tongue and teeth. A particularly sharp nip along the ridge of her collarbone draws a high pitched keen from Bernie’s throat and when Serena looks up, her pupils are blown wide, face flushed and beautiful. 

A noise Bernie doesn’t recognize bubbles up from somewhere in her chest and she levers her hips, rolling Serena beneath her in the center of the bed, legs tangled and hips pressed tight together as she kisses her deeply. She pulls back just enough to work a hand between them, slides over the soft swell of Serena’s abdomen to slip her fingers just beneath the elastic of her lacy knickers.

“Can I touch you?” she whispers against Serena’s mouth, feels delirious with desire, like she may actually die if she can’t make Serena fall apart. “ _Please_. I need to touch you.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Serena hisses, teeth tugging on Bernie’s bottom lip, releasing it with a small pop before soothing the sting with a swipe of her tongue. 

Eyes intent on Serena’s face, not wanting to miss a moment, Bernie takes a tremulous breath and slides her hand lower.

She’s thought about this, of course she has. There have been nights that she’s thought of little else, has imagined this moment in a million different permutations. None of those fevered imaginings have prepared her for the reality.

Touching Serena is a revelation, overwhelming in the best possible way, and it’s a moment Bernie wants to sear into her memory. The sight of Serena, head tilted back, mouth open on a gasp, eyes squeezed shut, her face a grimace of pleasure. The feel of her around Bernie’s fingers, at once so familiar and so completely foreign to touching herself, warm and wet and velvet soft, is more than she could’ve ever possibly expected. 

Her initial uncertainty is washed away by her overwhelming need to make Serena feel as good as she possibly can. Bernie brings all of her diagnostic skill to bear as she finds the places, the rhythms that build Serena higher and higher, short nails biting into Bernie’s shoulders and her hips matching the pace of Bernie’s hand, an endless stream of praise and helpless noises of pleasure spilling from her mouth.

Serena’s moans go high and breathy, her body bowstring taut and trembling, mindlessly chanting “ _don’t stop, don’t stop_ ” like a mantra. And then with a cry she arches clear off the bed, pulsing around Bernie’s fingers, entirely lost to her pleasure and so achingly beautiful Bernie feels tears prick at the back of her eyes. 

Bernie gently works her through it, doesn’t stop until Serena collapses back against the bed, shuddering and panting. Her heart feels like it might burst out of her chest; knowing that _she did that_ , that _she_ made Serena fall apart so completely, makes her feel twelve feet tall. 

She rolls to the side, gathering Serena in her arms, hands moving in long soothing strokes along her spine as Serena slowly returns to herself, noses into her mussed hair, breathing in the scent of her. 

Eventually, Serena pulls back enough to meet Bernie’s eyes, her own sparkling and languid with satisfaction. Her hand moves to cup Bernie’s cheek and Bernie leans into it like a pleased cat.

“God, Bernie. That was…” Serena chuckles, a little bemused. “Where have you been all my life?”

Bernie can’t help the smug grin that stretches across her face, a sassy rejoinder cut off by the press of Serena’s lips, the teasing tongue stroking against her own. She gasps at the first press of fingers against the front of her knickers, grinding against them with a helpless whine, a little stunned at how very close she is just from making Serena come.

“May I?” Bernie can only nod desperately, holding her breath at the feel of Serena’s thumbs hooking beneath the waistband of her knickers, tugging the sodden fabric down her legs far enough that Bernie can kick them away. 

Serena’s hand slips behind Bernie’s knee, pulling her thigh up to rest on her hip, the air surprisingly cool against her heated flesh. Already she can’t keep her hips still, hears herself making desperate little noises without even being touched.

“Shhhhhh, darling. It’s all right.” Serena rakes her fingers soothingly through Bernie’s hair, brushing her lips against the angle of her jaw, her cheekbone. “I’m right here. I’m going to take such good care of you.” Her care surrounds Bernie like a warm blanket and she forces herself to relax as Serena’s hand moves down her body.

The first feather-light touch of Serena’s fingers against Bernie’s clit cuts through her like the keen edge of a scalpel, nerve endings exploding into sensations that flood her body with a pleasure that only compounds as her touch becomes more sure, confident. They lay pressed together, face to face, breaths mingling, almost no movement except Serena’s hand working between them. It’s shockingly intimate, more so than all the private moments of her marriage combined, sweet and tender and perfect.

Bernie wishes she could hold back, could live in this moment forever, but she’s too far gone for that now. It seems like no time at all before she’s jerking helplessly against Serena’s fingers, muffling her cries in her silver streaked hair as stars burst across her tightly closed eyes.

She becomes aware of Serena’s fingers against her cheeks as she returns to herself, realizes that there are tears there. Opening her eyes, she sees the concern on Serena’s face, kisses her softly, reassuring that she’s all right through touch. “Thank you,” Bernie whispers softly, wishes she had the words to express the depth of her gratitude to this incredible woman.

Arms around Serena’s back, Bernie pulls her that much closer, the warmth of Serena’s body, her soft breathing, quickly lulling her to sleep.

-

It takes Bernie a moment to get her bearings when she wakes in the middle of the night. The room looks strange, unexpected shadows cast by the bright moonlight; not her room at _Bramasole_ , but not anywhere else she recognizes, either. As she rolls onto her back, the lingering soreness of her muscles, the heady scent of sex clinging to the sheets, brings it all rushing back, a thrill shuddering through her. She turns her head, frowning a little at the empty pillow beside her, and pushes herself up onto her elbows.

The gauzy curtains flutter in the night breeze and through them Bernie can just make out a silhouette on the balcony, the faint scent of cigarette smoke filtering in through the open door. Swinging her legs out of bed, she slips her rumpled shirt back on, not even bothering to button it, just holding it closed around her waist as she pads over to the doorway.

It’s a long moment before Serena notices her, giving Bernie the chance to study her - the moonlight limning her profile, making the silver in her mussed hair shine bright, her lips pursed as she takes another drag off the slim cigarette between her fingers. She’s beautiful, of course she is, but the sorrow on her face, bleak and unrelenting, hits Bernie like a fist to the gut.

She must make a noise, because Serena turns, eyes widening a little at the sight of Bernie watching her. Just like that the sorrow is gone, hidden behind a mask, a pasted on smile that Bernie thinks might almost be worse.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Bernie forces a smile, hopes it looks reassuring. “Everything all right?”

“Oh, yes. I just - I don’t sleep well, is all.” Even from a few paces away, Bernie can read the warning in Serena’s eyes, one that says that pushing the issue would not be welcome. Bernie wishes she were better at this sort of thing, wishes she knew how to draw Serena out of this shell she’s so clearly constructed around herself, wishes she knew what had broken Serena’s heart. Her eyes drop to the cigarette between Serena’s elegant fingers and Serena smiles ruefully. “A bad habit for a doctor, I know.”

Bernie moves slowly over to where Serena sits, feels a bit of a thrill at the way Serena’s eyes drop to her bare legs as she walks. Plucking the cigarette from Serena’s hand, Bernie sinks into her lap, feels the warm silk of her dressing gown against the backs of her thighs, the breath that shudders through Serena’s body. 

She takes a long, slow drag on the cigarette, the end flaring cherry red in the darkness, her eyes fluttering shut in bliss as the nicotine floods her system. Holding the smoke in her lungs almost to the point of pain, she lets it out in a steady stream between pursed lips. When she looks down she sees Serena studying her avidly, pupils wide and lips parted, and Bernie has to fight back a grin.

“I quit when I moved here. Turning over a new leaf and all that.” Bernie rolls the cigarette lightly between her fingers, chuckling ruefully. “God, I miss it.”

Another deep inhalation fills her lungs with smoke and she tilts her head, lets the smoke billow against Serena’s parted lips as she exhales, capturing her mouth in a deep, searching kiss as the last clouds dissipate between them, swallowing Serena’s surprised moan.

“Come back to bed,” Bernie whispers against Serena’s lips. She slides off of her lap and gets to her feet, grasping Serena’s hand and pulling her up to join her.

Neither of them says a word, the cigarette left smoldering in the ashtray on the balcony as Bernie leads Serena back into the bedroom, slips the dressing gown from Serena’s shoulders and presses her down among the rumpled bedclothes. There’s a fragile bubble of silence surrounding them, no noise at all except for the whisper of skin on fabric as Bernie makes her way down Serena’s body, reacquainting herself with the dips and valleys as she passes.

A single tremulous gasp shatters the silence as Bernie lowers her head, tastes Serena for the first time, and god, forget the first time she performed surgery, the thrill of adrenaline on the front lines. This, _this_ , is what she was put on this earth to do. To pull these helpless sounds from Serena, to make her hips buck and her body writhe, fists clenching white knuckled in the duvet. The feel of Serena fluttering against her tongue, a final garbled cry still filling her ears, floods Bernie with an incandescent joy the likes of which she’s never known, her chest filled to bursting with a sense of wonder, a _rightness_ that she’s been missing her whole life.

Making her way back up the bed, she gathers a still trembling Serena in her arms, nuzzling into the soft hair at her crown. Says nothing at the feel of wetness against the slope of her chest, just holds Serena that much tighter as they both drift back to sleep. 

The next time Bernie wakes, sunlight is spilling across the foot of the bed, a splash of gold slowly crawling higher across the rumpled duvet. Unlike before, Serena is there; curled into Bernie’s side, soft, even breaths gusting against Bernie’s neck with each exhalation. Her hair is spiked up against the pillow, mouth open slightly, eyelashes casting soft shadows on her cheeks, and Bernie’s heart aches at the sight, at how peaceful she looks, the omnipresent lines of sorrow smoothed away in sleep. 

She’s knows its early, that no matter the exertions of last night her body isn’t one for sleeping much past dawn. The scent of fresh baked bread wafts through the window, and Bernie vaguely remembers passing a bakery on their way to the flat last night. Her belly rumbles at the thought.

Careful not to wake Serena, she eases out of the warm cocoon of the bed, dressing quickly in her rumpled clothes from the night before. She makes sure to grab Serena’s keys from the counter on her way out the door, dragging her fingers through her hair to dislodge the worst of the tangles as she steps out into the light of early morning.

When Bernie returns a short time later, she finds Serena just sitting up in bed, adorably rumpled and wearing only a haphazardly wrapped bedsheet. She can see the relief cross Serena’s face, realizes with a wince what she must’ve thought upon waking.

“Sorry, I thought you might want breakfast.” She holds up her spoils, a small waxen bag and a tray with two paper cups. “I got sfogliatelle and coffee.” 

Serena breaks into a smile that warms Bernie right to her toes. She hands the food over as she kicks off her shoes, pushing her trousers off her hips and climbing back under the covers so quickly it makes Serena laugh.

They lounge in bed, legs tangled as they eat the decadent pastry, washing it down with strong lattes. Bernie has barely set her empty cup on the bedside table when Serena straddles her lap, the sheet abandoned. The taste of buttery pastry and bitter coffee lingers on her tongue as they lose themselves again in one another, everything made new in the light of day.

Afterward Bernie lays on her stomach, hands beneath her cheek, watching Serena through half lidded eyes as she draws aimless patterns on the skin of Bernie’s back with her fingertips, chin propped on her fist and the sheet bunched around her waist.

“What time is it?” Bernie asks quietly, loathe to break the atmosphere.

Serena cranes her neck to see the clock on her dressing table, hand never ceasing its soothing movements. “Just about half ten.” 

Bernie groans, burying her face further in the pillow. “The last bus to Cortona leaves in an hour and a half.” She pushes up onto her elbows, dislodging Serena’s hand as she stretches her back. “D’you mind if I use your shower?” The way Serena’s eyebrow arches pools heat directly between her thighs.

“Want some help?”

She barely makes it in time for the bus, in the end. Serena’s idea of “helping” in the shower turns out to be extremely pleasurable, but not very time efficient. 

Serena walks her to the station and just being able to wander the city with Serena’s hand held in her own fills Bernie with indescribable joy. 

They pause outside the doors, turning to face each other, their hands still joined. Once again, Bernie regrets her difficulty expressing herself where feelings are concerned, wishes she had the words to explain what this has meant to her. Serena must see her conflict and takes pity on her, reaching out to stroke her fingers lightly through Bernie’s hair, tucking it behind her ear.

“This was...wonderful.” Her cheeks crease in a smile. “Unexpected, but wonderful.”

The words Bernie has been holding back all morning come again to the tip of her tongue and this time she manages to summon the bravery to speak them.

“I’d like to see you again.” 

Something cools in Serena’s demeanor, a shuttering in her normally warm eyes, and even though they haven’t moved, distance suddenly yawns between them.

“I’d like that too,” Serena says, but Bernie can tell she’s dissembling, hears the note of hesitation in her voice and it makes her stomach roil. She forces herself to smile, to pretend like her heart isn’t breaking.

“It’s all right, I understand.” She makes to pull away, wants to get into the bus station and away from Serena before she bursts into tears, but Serena’s hand grips hers tightly, stops her from leaving.

“No, wait.” When Bernie turns back, she’s stunned to see something akin to panic on Serena’s face, the fathomless pain of last night suddenly returned to her eyes. “I didn’t mean...I’d love to see you again, Bernie. Truly. In one night you’ve made me happier than I’ve been in- “ Serena stops herself going further, bright spots of color staining her cheeks. “It’s just...I don’t know how long I’m going to be here, exactly.”

There’s still something there, something that makes anxiety coil in Bernie’s stomach, but she thinks unexpectedly of Fleur, of her admonishment to push aside the fear and open herself to possibility.

“Can, can I call you?” It’s the right thing to say, blessedly, and a genuine smile softens the anguish on Serena’s face. She gives their joined hands a squeeze.

“I’d like that, very much.” An announcement for Cortona comes over the loudspeaker as Serena digs in her handbag, quickly scribbles her number on a scrap of paper and tucks it into Bernie’s hand. Leans in to press a lingering kiss against Bernie’s cheek and Bernie closes her eyes, tries to memorize the feel of her skin, the scent of her perfume.

“Goodbye, darling.” The movement of her lips is like butterfly wings against Bernie’s skin.

Before Bernie can respond Serena turns and walks quickly away, leaving Bernie standing in the street with a piece of paper clutched in her hand and the scent of Serena lingering on her clothes.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s a little embarrassing, but Bernie can’t deny that she feels different when she gets back to the villa. _Everything_ feels different, like her skin fits perfectly for the first time. Contentment in who she is radiates out of her, colors all of her interactions, and in the back of her mind she thinks of Serena. Always Serena.

Fleur notices the difference immediately, eyebrows rising to her hairline when they bump into one another in the piazza. 

“Find what you needed in Positano, did you?” The implication is heavy in her voice and Bernie can’t keep the grin from her face.

“Ladybugs, Fleur,” she laughs with a wink. “Lots and _lots_ of ladybugs!”

Bernie manages to wait two days before walking down to the phone booth after supper, dialing the number Serena gave her with trembling fingers.

“Hello?” A breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding gusts from Bernie at the sound of Serena’s voice.

“Hi, Serena. It- it’s Bernie. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

“Not at all!” The immediate warmth in her tone curls in Bernie’s belly, has her smiling into the phone receiver. “I’m so glad you called.”

They chat easily, Serena laughing as Bernie explains the myriad reasons behind why she’s calling from a pay phone, and they agree that calling in the evenings is best, when Serena’s most likely to be home. They keep things vague enough that it’s nothing like a commitment, but just the thought of being able to talk to Serena like this on a regular basis launches a joyful flutter of butterflies in Bernie’s stomach.

The conversation starts to wind down and Bernie steels herself for the true purpose of the call, summons the words she rehearsed on the walk down from the villa.

“I, um, I was thinking about coming back down to Positano at the weekend. For a couple of days.” Bernie bites her lip, a litany of _please, please, please_ racing through her mind.

“Is that so?” Serena’s voice is a veritable purr, and Bernie can’t help but squeeze her thighs together a bit at the sound. “Well, if you need a place to stay while you’re here, I think I can make some space in my bed.”

Bernie huffs out a relieved chuckle, desire making her voice rough. “I’d like that, very much.”

Returning from the market the next day, Bernie frowns at the silhouette of someone lurking on her porch. Nino isn’t working today, and whoever it is is far too tall to be Fleur.

“Can I help you?” Bernie calls as she walks up the newly re-paved path. “This is private property and-” She freezes, mouth hanging slack in shock. “Alex?”

“Surprise!” Alex steps gingerly off the porch, one hand on her heavily rounded belly. “I would’ve told you I was coming, but you’d have talked me out of flying.” Bernie rushes forward, hugging Alex as tight as she can with the sizable bump between them. She feels unexpected tears clogging her throat, hadn’t realized until this moment how much she’s missed her friend.

Holding Alex away from her at arm’s length, Bernie gives her the once over. “My god, look at you!” It’s more than a little startling to see the changes to her, their time apart making it feel like she’s exploded into pregnancy all once. Alex grimaces, filling Bernie with concern. “Alex? Are you all right?”

“Yes, I just really need to pee!”

Once they’re both inside, Bernie sets mugs of tea for each of them on the table in front of the sofa Alex is ensconced on, bare feet up on the cushion, a pillow held against her stomach. She takes a seat opposite, reaching out to give her foot a gentle squeeze.

“It’s so good to see you Alex.” Bernie settles back against the arm of the sofa, blowing a little on her piping hot tea. “I take it Hannah couldn’t get away from work?” 

A sob escapes Alex and Bernie’s eyes go wide in alarm, quickly setting her mug back on the table and leaning forward to grasp Alex’s hand. “Alex? What is it?”

“She, she left me, Bern,” Alex eventually gets out between great hiccuping sobs, tears streaming down her face. “Said she realized she didn't want to be a mother after all and packed up the next day.”

“Oh god. Alex…” Bernie says, squeezing Alex’s hand that much harder. 

“I’d already started my leave of absence from my locum position and I didn’t know what else to do. So I came here.” She looks up, eyes red rimmed. “What am I gonna do, Bern?”

Bernie grips her knee firmly. “You’re going to stay here, and you’re going to have that baby. Lord knows I have the space and we can look into OBs in Florence. Hell, if you can’t find a doctor you like, I’ll deliver the baby here.” She catches Alex’s gaze, trying to communicate calm and reassurance like she used to with injured soldiers in the field. “You saved my life, Alex. We can do this.”

With a watery smile, Alex’s hand slips into her own and holds on tight.

Wrung out from a long flight and endless tears, Alex lays down for a nap before supper, and Bernie takes the opportunity to jog down to the phone booth. The ancient answering machine that came with Serena’s rental flat picks up after a few rings and Bernie can’t help her disappointment.

“Serena, ah, it’s Bernie. I-” The line clicks and crackles and Bernie hears a soft curse in the background.

“Bernie? Are you still there?”

“Serena, hi! Yes, I’m here.” 

“Sorry, I just got in. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.” Bernie can hear rustling and thumps in the background, the picture of Serena dropping her bag and puttering about her tiny flat bringing a smile to her face. “Not that I mind! Actually, I had an idea for the weekend I wanted to run by you.”

Bernie closes her eyes, the cheer in Serena’s voice filling her with regret. “About that, Serena. I, I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it this weekend.”

“Oh, right.” Her disappointment is like a punch to Bernie’s gut, an almost physical pain. “I understand if you’ve changed your mind. I just-”

“Serena, no! No it’s nothing like that,” Bernie says, desperate to reassure her. “Believe me, I want nothing more than to come visit this weekend. But my best friend from back home showed up out of the blue today. She’s pregnant and her partner ran out on her, and I- I just really think I'd better stay here. I’m so sorry, Serena.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bernie. Of course you need to take care of your friend.” Regret and affection thread through her tone. “I’ll admit to being disappointed, though. I was very much looking forward to spending more time with you.” 

Serena’s words are heavy with the implication of how she planned on spending that time, and Bernie leans her head against the phone case with a groan. “God, so was I. Maybe soon, though? It’s going to take a little time to get Alex settled, but once she’s comfortable, I should be able to come down for a few days.”

“I’d like that,” Serena says softly, the words wrapping around Bernie, warming her from the inside.

They say their goodbyes and Bernie hangs up the phone with a sigh, begins thinking about what she’ll need from the market to feed her unexpected houseguest.

-

It’s nice having Alex around, Bernie finds, gives her both the companionship she’s been missing and a project to focus on. Alex moves into one of the extra bedrooms in the villa and together she and Bernie start reworking the small attached room as a nursery. There’s something satisfying about preparing for a child like this, an opportunity that Bernie never thought she’d have, that she’d never pursued despite Marcus’s hints over the years.

Alex brings a new life, a new energy to _Bramasole_ , settling into life in the little town surprisingly quickly. She and Fleur take an immediate shine to one another, and evenings spent with the three of them lingering over a meal and talking into the late hours become the norm.

In the midst of it all, Bernie starts calling Serena every few days from the pay phone in the center of town, earning the stares of the villagers and increasing suspicion from Alex. 

She’s not sure why she doesn’t tell Alex about the calls. There’s no avoiding telling her about Serena and she endures a thoroughly embarrassing night of increasingly explicit questions about her from Alex and Fleur. For whatever reason, she finds herself wanting to keep their conversations private, like talking about them will tarnish them somehow.

After some initial awkwardness stemming from being practically strangers, their topics quickly become wide ranging and intensely personal. Maybe it’s the layer of distance that comes from not being face to face, but Bernie finds herself opening up to Serena in a way that she rarely does with anyone beside Alex, certainly never did with Marcus. She tells Serena about growing up with a strict military father, a mother who was perpetually disappointed in her tomboy daughter, about never quite feeling like she fit in, like something was always missing. How she’d spent most of her life trying to fill that void, first with her marriage to a man she could never love the way he wanted, and then with her dedication to the army, to medicine, only to have it all click into place in a fog of rotgut whiskey and a fumbling kiss.

Bernie finds that there’s healing in talking about it, in saying her truth out loud, and putting her trust in Serena earns trust in return.

Her heart breaks when Serena finally tells her about Elinor, her brilliant, headstrong, challenging daughter, too like her mother by half, their fraught relationship strained by divorce and the long hours that come with being a surgeon. There’s a dull disconnect in Serena’s voice when she talks about growing distance, the drug problem she didn’t recognize until it was far too late, her beloved daughter on life support in the very hospital that had caused so much strife between them.

It’s a story that Bernie has been able to mostly avoid in her work in trauma surgery, but that she can immediately see the terrible trajectory of nonetheless. The impossible decision to withdraw support, the recriminations of a grieving father and the search for answers, for someone to blame. Bernie wishes irrationally that she could’ve been there, could’ve have been the support Serena clearly needed desperately and didn’t find in her attempts to bury herself in work, finding a substitute in wine, wallowing in a lake of incomprehensible grief. 

Grief is what drove Serena away from her hospital, her home, unable to bear the ghosts that seemed to be everywhere she turned. Even as she fled from the pain, memories of Elinor have guided her every step, led her to Positano. Serena weeps as she tells Bernie about cancelled vacation plans, the guttering of the last spark of hope in their relationship, and Bernie’s momentary flash of gratitude for any circumstance that brought Serena to her is chased away by a white-hot stab of guilt.

Not all of their conversations are so fraught. They swap stories of travel and adventures, of the family and friends they both left behind. Bernie gets used to the husk of Serena’s voice in her ear, the sound of her laugh, the flirtatious edge that’s never far from the surface. No matter the topic, the phone calls with Serena end up being the highlight of Bernie’s week.

While their phone calls bring them emotionally closer, life seems to be conspiring to keep them physically apart. Bernie struggles with the thought of leaving Alex alone at the villa, hugely pregnant and unable to speak the language, and Serena is reticent about travelling to Cortona. It’s understandable, but still Bernie feels a pang when she thinks of the distance that separates them, how increasingly unlikely it seems that she’ll see Serena again.

-

Walking through the door, Bernie pulls up short at the sight of a stern faced Alex in the sitting room, arms crossed, a piece of paper clutched in her hand. She knows immediately she’s in trouble, she’s just not quite sure why. 

“Um, hi?”

Alex eyes her coolly. “How was the market?”

It’s an unexpected opener, puts Bernie on her back foot, which she’s certain is the intent. “Ah, fine? I got some of those artichokes you liked so much.” She holds up her shopping bag like an offering, but Alex isn’t swayed. 

“You were gone a while. Do anything else while you were there?”

Bernie swallows reflexively, throat dry. “Not really. I chatted with Placido’s wife a bit. Their nephew is expecting another baby.” She leaves out the stop at the phone booth, her disappointment at getting Serena’s machine. Somehow she suspects Alex already knows. 

Her curiosity finally gets the best of her and she nods toward the piece of paper. “What’s that?”

“Oh, this?” Alex’s voice takes on a teasing tone that thickens her northern lilt. “A friend of yours stopped by, she seemed upset to miss you. A Serena Campbell?”

Bernie’s heart leaps into her throat. “S-Serena?” she stammers. “Serena was here?” Her eyes dart around the room, as if Serena is hiding in a closet or behind the sofa, Alex’s face alight with glee at her obvious distress. 

“‘One night stand’ my arse.” Bernie makes to grab the note, but Alex is quicker, holds it back out of Bernie’s reach. “Not until you tell me what’s really going on.”

They stare each other down for a long moment, until Bernie relents with a sigh. 

“My evening walks. They haven’t just been to get out of the house.” She shoves her hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched defensively. “I’ve been calling Serena. We’ve been...talking.” Alex waggles her eyebrows and Bernie huffs in exasperation “Not like that! We’ve just been getting to know each other, that’s all. Now, can I please see the note?” she says, holding out her hand. 

Alex finally gives in and Bernie grabs the paper, scanning it avidly as she sits on the sofa. Serena’s handwriting is just what she’d expect, elegant and clear. Bernie’s irrepressible grin fades as she makes her way through the all too short note, brushing her thumb back and forth against the scrolling ‘S’ of Serena’s signature, just above an address in Quarna Sopra.

“Bern? What’s wrong?”

“She says she’s sorry she missed me. And that she’s going north for a few weeks and won’t be able to get any calls.” Bernie tilts her head back against the sofa with a gusty sigh, wills the tears that suddenly prick her eyes to recede. “Damn it, Alex, why didn’t you make her wait?”

“How was I supposed to know you wanted me to? It’s not like you ever talk about her; I hardly remembered her name.” Alex points at her, blue eyes blazing with indignation. “If you’d been honest with me about her I would’ve tried harder! Besides, she said she had a train to catch in Arezzo.”

Bernie folds the note carefully, fingers tracing along the crease thoughtfully. “I know, you’re right. I just…” Alex sinks gingerly onto the sofa beside her, nudging Bernie with her shoulder.

“You like her.”

“Yeah. I do.” It feels good to say out loud, makes it more real somehow to admit her growing feelings to her best friend. She nudges Alex back with her elbow, making her flinch away. “You’re sure you couldn’t have made her wait? You could have faked labor at least.” Alex winces again, more dramatically this time, hissing through her teeth a bit, one hand cradling her stomach protectively. “About that, Bern. I, ah, I wouldn't have had to fake it...”

-

In the end, it’s good that Serena is out of touch for a while. Settling Alex in and helping care for little Francesca doesn’t leave Bernie with much time for long phone calls and meandering conversations. 

Instead, her days become a blur of late night feedings and nappy changes, rushing to shush Nino and his workers when the baby is blessedly napping.

Always an early riser, Bernie takes to getting Frankie from her crib in the morning, happy to let Alex sleep for a few more hours. When the weather is warm enough, she carries the freshly changed and swaddled baby outside to watch the sunrise over the valley, holding her warm weight close against her chest and listening to her snuffling breaths, breathing in her soft scent. 

It fills her with a sense of peace, of family, makes her heart swell with happiness.

Still, she misses Serena. More and more each day. 

The note she left lives in Bernie’s bedside table, smudged and almost creased through from being read again and again. It’s easy to ignore during the day, but at night, alone in her bed, the regret at having missed possibly her last chance to see Serena churns in her stomach. 

Bernie knows it’s ridiculous, that they’re little more than acquaintances who had one glorious night together. It doesn’t stop her heart from feeling like she might have lost an opportunity for real happiness, the kind she had only ever dared dream of.

Curled up in a corner of the couch one night, Bernie sips at her wine absentmindedly, watching with unseeing eyes as Fleur plays peek-a-boo behind her silk scarf, Francesca burbling up at her, little arms waving enthusiastically.

Bernie can hear the lowered voices of Alex and Fleur, not taking in the words until the latter's voice raises a touch, rousing her from her maudlin reverie, and she looks at the two of them with a frown.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. You’re _moping_.” Fleur leans back on her hands as Alex lifts Frankie into her lap, pinning Bernie with an all too knowing glare. “I had such high hopes for you after Positano. Instead you’re holed up here, licking your wounds, just as scared as the day I met you.”

“Excuse me?” Bernie puts her glass down with a louder than expected _clink_ , shoots an apologetic wince toward Alex and the baby. “What exactly am I supposed to do? In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a bit busy, what with trying to get the house finished and helping out with Frankie.” She swallows a little against the bitterness that’s lingered in her chest these past few weeks, knows there’s no point in pretending they’re talking about anything else. “Besides, she’s the one who said not to try and get in touch.”

“That’s not true,” Alex says, lifting Frankie into the air. “The note said she wouldn’t be able to take calls, it didn’t say anything about not getting in touch.”

Bernie’s brow furrows a little at that, mind running over the words of Serena’s note, words she’s practically memorized by now. “I’m not sure I see the difference, Alex. It’s not like I have another way of getting ahold of her. Hey!” She barely dodges the stuffed elephant Fleur flings at her head, eyes wide in outrage.

“She gave you an address, you absolute numpty. Did it never occur to you she might want you to follow her?”

Poleaxed, Bernie slumps back against the cushions. It honestly hadn’t crossed her mind, caught up as she was in the baby, in missing Serena, in the painful assumption that she’d never see her again. 

A flutter of hope sparks inside her, alongside the sickening fear that she’s waited too long to figure it out.

“Go after her, Bern,” Alex says with a smile. “You deserve to give this a shot.”

The thought of seeing Serena again fans the spark into a flame, a flush of warmth that Bernie hardly realized she was missing. “But, Alex, you and the baby…” She wants to go, wants to run to the train station now, but leaving Alex alone in her still unfinished house gives her pause.

“I’ll stay with them,” Fleur says as she stands, lifting Frankie from Alex’s arms and resting her against her shoulder, one hand stroking her dark, downy hair. “Sometimes you need to chase the ladybugs, my dear.”

Gratitude floods Bernie in a wave, that she has these wonderful friends in her life, has built this ragtag family that means more to her than blood. Hugging them both and pressing a kiss to Frankie’s head, she grabs her tattered duffle from the closet and heads upstairs to pack.

-

Winding her way up into the mountains north of Milan in the little red Fiat she rented, Bernie clicks the heat up another notch, wishing once again she had packed a jumper for protection against the chill, thin air at the higher elevations. 

It’s hard to keep her eyes focused on the narrow switchback road, surrounded as it is on all sides by stunning mountain views. The land finally evens out a bit and she turns into an unpaved drive off the road, the vista opening to reveal a stately building nestled on the shore of _lago d’ Orta_ , the reflections of clouds scuttling across the surface of the crystal blue lake. 

The address in Serena’s note turned out to be for the Mandali Retreat Center, a meditative sanctuary in the far north of the country. One glance at their website had explained Serena’s lack of contact, the beautifully worded descriptions of solitude and silence making Bernie feel even more the fool.

Passing through the tall doors, Bernie enters a vaulted atrium, all pale, warm wood and natural stone, a fireplace crackling merrily to one side. There’s an almost unnatural hush in the air, and even knowing her own quiet nature, Bernie’s not sure she could stand to stay here for long.

A young woman sits behind the desk, white blonde hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, ice blue eyes flitting over Bernie as she approaches. She suddenly feels very underdressed, out of place in her worn jeans and flannel.

“Can I help you?” The woman’s voice is barely above a whisper, but seems aggressively loud in the surrounding silence.

“Uh, yes,” Bernie replies nervously, voice pitched as low as she can manage. “I’m, ah, I’m looking for one of your guests? She left this as her address and I, well, I was hoping to see her.” 

The woman glares in her direction and Bernie follows her gaze, realizes that her fingers are unconsciously tapping an uneven rhythm against the surface of the desk. She stills her hand, gives the woman a wan smile that’s met with a sniff, as she turns to the computer.

“Name?”

Bernie leans over the desk a bit. “Ah, Serena. Serena Campbell. About my age. Short, dark hair, sparkling eyes, incredible smile, dimpled chin…” She breaks off her rambling at the rise of an eyebrow, blushing furiously, and tries not to fidget as she waits, the silence broken only by the hiss and pop of wood in the fire and the soft tapping of the keyboard.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. It looks like Ms. Campbell checked out last week.”

Bernie’s stomach drops to the floor. “Are you certain?” She can hear the crack in her own voice, the note of desperation. “Did, did she leave a forwarding address? A phone number?”

“No, ma’am, she didn’t.” Something like pity crosses the woman’s face and Bernie can only imagine what her own expression must look like. “I could maybe ask if some of our current guests were in her retreat group? They might know -” Bernie cuts her off with a wave of the hand, a forced smile that comes out more of a grimace.

“That’s all right.” The words sound like they’re coming from very far away, from a mouth other than her own. “Thank you for your help.”

The woman continues talking, but Bernie doesn’t hear her. Turning her back on the beautiful building, the surroundings that had filled her with such hope and wonder, she walks back out the door, willing herself to keep the tears of bitter disappointment at bay.

\- 

Bernie throws herself into the finishing details at the villa, filling the hours when she isn’t painting and sanding with long walks through the surrounding hills and spending time with Frankie. She doesn’t talk about Serena, only gave Alex and Fleur a short description of what happened when she returned.

They treat her like she’s fragile, in danger of breaking at any moment. She hates it, all the more because it’s true.

For all that she keeps up a front, insists again and again that she’s perfectly fine, inside it feels like the beginning of her recovery after the IED all over again; walking around with an aching rend through the center of her chest, her heartbeat strangely amplified, as if it’s closer to the surface somehow, so loud it keeps her awake at night. 

More than anything, Bernie feels like a fool. Berates herself for getting so tangled up in a relationship that clearly existed only in her mind. It’s not like Serena owed her anything, she reminds herself countless times a day. It certainly wasn’t her fault that the woman she had a one night stand with had gone and fallen in love with her.

Because that’s what this is, Bernie can see that clearly now. A morbid part of her finds it almost funny; after spending her whole life with a man she could never love properly, she falls head over heels for a woman who doesn’t love her back. She imagines Marcus would have a good laugh about it all.

As the weeks pass, she finds ways to think about it less, forces herself to focus on the good parts. Despite it all, she’s grateful to Serena for drawing her out of herself, showing her the woman she could be, the life she could have, even if that life isn’t with Serena herself. Bernie eventually starts to think fondly of their conversations, remembers the touch of Serena’s lips with every sip of rich, red wine.

The late summer sun is already blazing in the sky when Alex accosts her one morning, drags her out the front door and puts her hands over Bernie’s eyes.

“Alex, this is ridiculous,” Bernie grouses as her foot catches once again on one of the cobblestones in the front path. She hears the gate creak open as they pause.

“Just hang on, Bern. It’ll be worth it, I promise.” Reluctantly, Bernie keeps her eyes closed, lets Alex maneuver her into place. “Ok, you can look.”

Bernie blinks against the light, is surprised to see Nino and the boys standing beside the replastered front wall, along with Placido, and Fleur with the baby in her arms. Even Mr. Martini is there, smiling wide at her confusion. She opens her mouth to ask what’s going on, when a flash of color catches her eye, the words dying on her lips.

The embossed tile, the one she’d seen from the window of the tour bus over a year ago, has been restored along with the wall it’s set in. A wash of pale colors highlight the details of the house, the olive trees, the blue sky overhead and the green of the valley beyond. Beneath the image, the word _Bramasole_ is picked out in swirling golden lettering, glinting in the sunlight.

“ _Signora_ ,” Nino steps forward, looking solemn and proud, speaking slowly in his thickly accented English, “the work is done. _Bramasole_ is yours.”

The assembled group break into cheers and applause, and Bernie can hardly see through the haze of tears in her eyes, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt as she’s pulled into handshakes and hugs all around.

That night over enough food and wine to supply an army, it’s decided that they should host a housewarming party of sorts, a chance for the village at large to see the fine work Nino has done, the beautiful preservation of this piece of the village’s history by their odd British neighbors.

Alex and Fleur take charge of the decorations, while Bernie spends the better part of the week leading up to the party cooking an endless variety of dishes to serve, at turns nervous and excited about opening her home like this.

The day of the party dawns mild and bright, Bernie standing in the yard with Frankie perched on her hip watching the early morning light creep across the valley, driving away the lingering mist in the hollows. 

It’s incredible when she thinks about the way her life has changed in the last two years. So much of it has been painful - the IED, the divorce, the struggles of leaving home and building a new life - but she finds, in this moment, the pain only serves to make her grateful for all of the good in her life. Alex, Frankie, and Fleur; her unexpected family. Her beautiful home and the kind hearted villagers who have embraced her. Serena, the woman who helped her, finally, fully accept who she is, the woman she was always meant to be.

Bernie still thinks about Serena often, can’t deny that she wishes it had all turned out differently, that they’d met in some other time, some other situation. But instead of pain, all she feels now is love and gratitude, hopes more than anything that wherever Serena is, she’s happy.

The whole village turns out for the celebration, more people than Bernie really even knew lived in the area. Fleur and Alex have outdone themselves, the olives trees draped in fairy lights and bunting, flowers in cups and vases on every available surfaces. They set up tables on the patio, loaded down fair to groaning with platter after platter of food, another smaller table nearby just for the wine that was given to them as a housewarming gift by the vineyard.

Bernie pushes the door open with her hip, hands busy balancing yet another tray of antipasti. She deposits her burden on the buffet, brushing her hands together and looking over the assembled crowd. 

Everywhere she looks people are talking and laughing, children of all ages running between the legs of the adults, all of them dressed in their Sunday best. Fleur even managed to talk Bernie into shopping for the event, kitting her out in all white - a crisp, tailored dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up her forearms, tucked into a pair of linen trousers that hug her hips nicely before falling straight to her sandaled feet. When she’d tried the outfit on, Alex wolf whistled, suggested that maybe Fleur invite a few of the bright eyed young ladies she knows to the event, but Bernie put her foot down. She’s not sure she’s ready to go back down that path just yet.

“You’ve done good, Bern.” Alex drapes an arm around her shoulder, laughing at the sight of Fleur dancing with a smiling Frankie on her hip. She tugs Bernie around to face her, blue eyes serious. “I mean it. I had my doubts at first, but what you’ve done here, what you’ve built. It’s incredible.”

Bernie ducks her head a bit shyly, still unused to accepting compliments, her hands coming up to grasp Alex’s forearms. “I couldn’t have done it without you, you know. You and Frankie, I- I’m just so glad you’re here.”

“Just promise me you won’t use us as an excuse to keep people out.” The comment lands as it’s meant, Bernie wincing a little at how clearly Alex sees her. “You deserve to be happy with someone, Bern.”

“I am happy.” She squeezes Alex’s arms at her disbelieving frown. “I _will_ be happy. Someday.”

Alex’s eyes flick away over Bernie’s shoulder, widening in surprise, a grin breaking out across her face. “Maybe sooner than you think,” Alex says with a wink, stepping away faster than Bernie can ask what exactly she means.

Before Bernie can follow, she hears a voice behind her, the voice that has haunted her dreams for months.

“Is this party invitation only, or can anyone join?”

Bernie turns so fast her head spins, heart lodged in her throat. “Serena,” she breathes, barely able to believe that she’s real, that she’s _here_. 

“Surprise.” Serena smiles a little awkwardly, hands wringing before her, as if she’s nervous what kind of reception she’ll get. 

A month ago, it would’ve been different, but now all Bernie can feel is pure joy, overwhelmed by the sight of her. Serena’s somehow even more beautiful than she remembered, dressed in a long floral skirt and a bright coral vest that makes her skin glow, her eyes just as dark and sparkling as they were on the beach in Positano, her mouth shimmering an enticing shade of pink. Serena’s smile starts to flag and Bernie realizes with a start that she hasn’t said anything.

“How-, I mean, what are you doing here?” Bernie fumbles a bit, catches herself before she reaches out to gasp Serena’s arms, hands hovering a little uncertainly between them. “I thought...I thought you left.” Although she’s made her peace with it, saying the words out loud is unexpectedly hard, her voice cracking a bit on the final word.

Sorrow and regret cloud Serena’s beautiful features. “I know, I-...Bernie, I’m so sorry. I’m _so_ sorry that I left the way I did. Something came up at home and I had to go back. Once I was there, I realized that I didn’t know how to get in touch with you.”

“It’s Cortona, Serena, not the Bermuda Triangle. I’m sure you could’ve found a way.” The words come out harsher than Bernie intends, but she can’t find it in herself to regret them, even when Serena flinches, thinks this conversation is one they very much need to have.

“You’re right,” Serena says. “I honestly wasn’t sure you’d want me to, after I just up and disappeared.” Her hands flutter a bit, as if she too wants to reach out.

“I went after you. Up to Mandali.” Serena’s eyes widen in horrified understanding, but Bernie pushes on, has to get it out after all this time. “You left the address on your note and I thought you wanted me to follow you. I think I would’ve followed you anywhere,” Bernie whispers, heartsick and unsure all over again.

“Bernie, I didn’t know. You have to believe me,” Serena says fervently, her voice thick. “We kept having to put off seeing one another, and then I missed you when I stopped by the villa. When I didn’t hear from you after that…” She breaks off, takes a steadying breath. “I thought you’d changed your mind about me. About...us.”

“So what brought you back to Italy, then?” Bernie’s voice is still cool, even as her mind whirls with Serena’s words, almost afraid to hope that Serena is here for anything having to do with her.

“You.” Serena looks so sincere, so hopeful, it makes Bernie’s heart flop about in her chest. “I was back in England and I could’ve stayed. Maybe I should’ve. But, Bernie, I- I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Haven’t been able to since Positano, if I’m honest.” Her words tumble out in a rush, so quickly Bernie has a hard time keeping up, and she wonders if Serena will ever stop talking now she’s started. 

“This is, _you_ are nothing I ever would’ve expected for myself and frankly I’m terrified.” She laughs a little, high and nervous. “But I’m even more scared at the thought of losing you forever. So, here I am, asking you to take me back. And I know it’s selfish, but-”

Whatever else Serena plans to say is cut off by Bernie’s lips pressed firmly against her own, arms threaded around Serena’s shoulders, holding her close. Bernie feels her hesitate a moment, then melt in her arms, a whimper vibrating against her lips as Serena deepens the kiss, her hands finding their place in Bernie’s hair. Distantly she hears whistling that she thinks might be Alex, a few ribald shouts that _must_ be Fleur, but it all fades away as she loses herself in Serena.

They’re both gasping when they finally part, faces flushed and smiling wide.

“Is that a yes?” Serena asks breathlessly. For a split second, Bernie considers saying no, just to wind Serena up, but she’s too ecstatic to pretend otherwise.

“Yes!” she practically shouts. “Yes, yes, yes.” Each affirmation is pressed against Serena’s smiling mouth, over and over until she dissolves into joyous laughter.

They can’t bring themselves to separate very far, stand intertwined in a space the other guests have discretely made for them, not that it would matter much. At this moment, Bernie only has eyes for Serena. 

A flutter of wings buzzes past Bernie’s ear and Serena reaches up to pluck something off her shoulder. Holding her hand up between them, Bernie sees a ladybug perched on the tip of her finger.

“Make a wish,” Serena says, a teasing smile on her lovely mouth, and Bernie just pulls her closer.

“I don’t need to,” Bernie whispers against her lips. “I’ve already got my wish.” 

She kisses Serena just as the ladybug takes flight, disappears into a speck in the sky over the villa.


End file.
